Not the Talking Kind
by whenwinterfell
Summary: Robb is fighting feelings he is probably not supposed to have, knowing they'll mean his doom him at one point. "In fact, the whole fantasy he had spent for years building around Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, his father's illegitimate son that his mother hated so much, meant his doom if ever he acted upon it."
1. Chapter 1

Looking up from the papers and maps his father had asked him to collect, Robb stretched out in his seat, hands reaching high above his head, the fur of his collar tickling his cheeks and ears. Thinking he would not be long, he hadn't even bothered to remove the dark, heavy coat, and suddenly he realised he felt warm – too warm. He glanced at the window. The shutters were pulled entirely open and he noticed the sunbeam ending on the wooden floor, a slight mist of dust dancing around in the shaft of light after the abrupt movements in his chair. He pushed away from the table, scrolls rolling in on themselves, his hand nearly missing a pot of ink as he rushed to the window, looking out over the courtyard.

There it was. All the way down, the sound of steel meeting steel. He stood watching the scene, transfixed, leaning slightly against the shutter that creaked loudly in its hinges. The sound brought him back to the present; he should be down there, really, practising side by side with Jon.

The thing was, sometimes he preferred to watch first. Especially on warmer days like today, when the sun stood high in a crisp, blue sky. When the snow was miles off to the north, and the usually cold gusts of wind lay low in the vales around Winterfell, not daring to breach its magnificent walls for once. On warm days, Jon's black leather jerkin would soon become too warm for him (he was a child of the North, all right), and Robb was all too aware of what his half-brother would then do.

"Come on," he coaxed softly, to nobody but himself. Robb forced his hands up, gripping the sill to keep them from wandering along his body, that as always responded far too much to the mere anticipation of Jon removing a garment. "You're a fool," he muttered again, this time meant for no one but himself. Still, his knuckles whitened as they gripped the rough wood of the windowsill in the deserted audience room where his father had left him about half an hour before.

"Come on, Jon," he said again, too loud, and he blushed, involuntarily glancing over his shoulder to check whether he was still the only person present in the large room. When he saw everything was still empty behind him, and when he realised no one could see him from the only door without having to walk at least four to five paces inside, he decided that enough was enough, and he allowed his right hand to pull his cloak closer first and then rest it on his thigh. Enough for now.

Down in the courtyard, Jon Snow slashed away at his opponent for the day, giving Jory as good as he got himself. "Is this all you can manage?" the powerful captain of the Stark guard asked him, panting, in between blows. "And you call yourself a northerner?" He slashed at Jon once more, watching the young man spin around as he parried the blow. Jory smiled; practising with Jon meant real business these days, and he never refused an invitation for a session. The boy with the pale skin and thick mass of black curls was a boy no longer, growing into a force to be reckoned with. "Hang on, hang on," Jon breathed, lowering his sword as he stepped back, raising a hand to signal he needed a moment. "Let me get out of this." He reached for the top button of his jerkin; Jory's laughter ringing in his ears.

"You think the enemy will allow you a breather?" Jory asked good-naturedly, trying to catch his breath himself, kneeling down with both hands on the pommel of his blade, which he'd pushed into the thick layer of dirt. He took another look at the boy who wasn't a boy. The tunic that remained after he'd shed the leather was too wide, which he claimed he liked, and he clawed at the top buttons again, opening them brusquely, pulling the garment down, allowing some air in. "Gods, it's a hot day," he complained, and, laughing, Jory stretched upright. "Don't be a girl," he grinned and attacked, giving Jon just enough time to take his eyes off the window way up over their heads.

Robb flinched when, in a heartbeat, Jon's eyes met his own. "Caught," he muttered, turning around, sweeping the cloak off his shoulders as he moved in long strides across the hall, relishing the last of the sweet tingle that he had nursed by keeping the flat of his hand pressed against the smoothly growing rise in his breeches. The image of Jon pulling impatiently at buttons and laces was enough to do that to him, and although he knew he'd be Lord of Winterfell one day, obliged to marry a noble lady, to father sons to succeed him and daughters to strengthen his claims on the North; nothing could arouse him more than the sight of his brother below in the courtyard, shirt half undone, steel blade in hand, a sweaty gloss on neck and forehead.

He was doomed, he knew. In fact, the whole fantasy he had spent for years building around Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, his father's illegitimate son that his mother hated so much, meant his doom if ever he acted upon it. He thundered down the spiral staircase, trying to make enough noise to chase the thoughts from his mind, thoughts of an infuriated mother, a disappointed father, but most importantly, thoughts of Jon in his ill-fitting white tunic, stark against the black of his hair and the fiery coals in his eyes and what Robb _really_ wanted to do when he caught him alone.

As Robb burst through the door at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly bathing in the sunlight on the courtyard, slightly out of breath, Jon was down in the dirt, busy trying to dodge Jory's blows from his awkward position, white tunic gone already, his upper body coated in a film of dust, streaks of dirt across his face. "You're late!" he called out, still trying to get his bearings, managing to outsmart Jory and get to his feet. "What's so important for you to be late?!"

_You probably damn well know,_ Robb thought, remembering the way their eyes had locked for the briefest of moments just now – so brief in fact that maybe he was just imagining things and he decided to say nothing. He pulled off his leather coat, unsheathed his sword, threw the coat at Arya who could have been there all along but whom he noticed only now. _Damn_, was his next thought. _Arya sees everything._ Sometimes his little sister scared him. Sometimes he felt like she was more of a warrior than he and Jon put together. Lucky for him she carried no sword...

"I'm here now," he called out and stepped between Jory and Jon, the former retreating immediately now that his Lord's heir had joined them, the latter smirking defiantly at him, circling him, challenging him. "So you are," was all Jon said in reply, smirk firmly in place, and Robb could swear he saw Jon's eyes flicker upwards, a hint at his previous hiding place, apparently not so secret anymore after all.

That evening dinner was a grander affair than usual. Some of Eddard Stark's liege lords had arrived in the course of the afternoon with their respective guards and trains, and it had caused Robb and Jon to cut short their rounds of practice as they rapidly ran out of space in the courtyard. Robb's eyes trailed the crowds below him, seated as he was up on the dais, a place he both loved and hated. He looked for Jon, like he always did, just needing to know where his half-brother had settled, fixing on that specific point in the hall, never to miss his eyes whenever he looked up from his plate of food. Yet this evening he was worried. Grander affairs like tonight's usually led to Jon grabbing dinner from the kitchens and eating it wherever he felt safe from Lady Stark's cold eyes and cold remarks. Which was exactly why Robb equally liked and disliked being seated where he was with his parents and the liege lords that one day were his to command. He searched the crowds once more, hating the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as it was clearly going to be one of _those_ evenings again. A meal without Jon to look at, unable to watch him eat and drink; a meal without the secret pleasure of watching Jon lick his lips after downing his cup. With the things he noticed, Robb thought, it became clear to him once more: he was doomed.

He wished he could at least have taken Grey Wind inside the hall, but his mother had flat out refused to have the animals anywhere near them on an important evening like this. To have his direwolf by his side would have made him feel less restless; more like… more like himself.

_And where, by the Gods, does all this come from? _He took a deep breath.

"What is it?" he heard a voice to his right. _Damn_. _Mother._ "You're distracted, and you've barely touched your food." She gave him a questioning frown. "Nothing," he said, but it sounded insufficient even to his own ears. Her eyebrows travelled higher up her brow, and she lightly touched his forearm. "Robb," she said, softer this time. "You need to be _here_, stay focused, listen and learn." She was right, of course, Robb knew. But he hated the fact she was right. He wanted to rise, leave and look for Jon. Jon, who wasn't there because his own mother, Lady Stark, refused to seat Jon where he belonged, right there with Sansa, Arya and Bran. Right there even with Theon. Right there where Robb normally sat as well, were it not for the blasted lords that forced him up here with his father and mother.

"I-" he started, desperately searching for words. "I feel sick, excuse me," and he pushed away from the richly laid table, chair almost-but-not-quite toppling over, and stormed off. It wasn't even a blatant lie either, he realised as he forced his way outside, pushing through servants and soldiers. He _did_ feel sick, all of a sudden, and the thick, smoky air within the hall wasn't doing him any favours. Pushing open the nearest door he could find, he heaved in large gulps of fresh air, hanging on to the door handle, doing everything in his power not to throw up in full view of all the strangers that were within the castle walls tonight, milling around the courtyard.

_Again, where does this come from?_ He stumbled away from the great hall, ducked the gate and made for the woods.

Feeling slightly better with the fresh air in his lungs, away from the stifling atmosphere in the hall and his mother's probing looks, he finally managed to relax a little. When he reached the weirwood, he sat with his back against the huge white tree and tried to quiet his mind, to stop his racing heart and his racing thoughts. He needed to wrap his head around everything he had thought and felt for the past few days, wrap his head around the fact that those thoughts had grown almost too big for him to handle, and the fact that he knew he didn't really have a choice but to act on them if wanted to keep his sanity. But what in the name of the Gods could he possibly do that wouldn't mean his downright ruin?

Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ruining part of his sleeve. One of the perks of not eating in the hall but opting for the kitchens was, of course, that he didn't have to stick to etiquette. It was never his thing anyway, so maybe it was just for the best that Lady Stark preferred him to be out of her sight. When he was younger, it had been an issue between him and his father. Yet now that he was older, he understood that some things just couldn't be remedied, that all he could do to remain at Winterfell was to accept Lady Stark's venomous looks and cold words – if ever she spoke to him at all, that was; apart from telling him off or sending him away.

In the end, he'd asked for a room away from the other children, refused the help of any of the servants and built a small world for himself within the family he did and did not belong to. He felt a Stark, but only in blood. Never in name.

Yet if it weren't for Lady Stark, life would probably be more than tolerable at Winterfell for him. His half-brothers and sisters had never treated him in any other way than they treated themselves. Sansa had always been distant but more or less kind to him, although lately, he wondered if it wasn't just her practising the noble skills she might need in King's Landing to treat a person she didn't _really_ like.

Arya was his true sister. Of course she knew he was their father's bastard, but maybe apart from Rickon who was simply too young to understand any of it, she was the only one who always truly treated him as her blood. She was closest to their father, too, in everything – from looks to a love for steel. Arya was born the wrong gender, like Jon was born from the wrong mother, which bound them by so many unspoken ties. Unspoken, as they were already understood, and it was always his rooms Arya came to when thunderstorms seemed to rip the ancient walls of Winterfell apart. It was always his bed she would crawl into, frightened, looking for someone to protect her from the Gods' wrath. Not Robb's, who slept two doors down from her own room – always his.

Then there was Bran, who looked up to him, like he looked up to his oldest brother. Clever Bran, whose mind always worked quicker than the rest of them, if only he could get his bow-arm to be just as swift. Bran listened to Jon and usually took his advice – he _did_ look up to him and Jon's descent did not mean a thing to him. Yet.

It did mean a thing to Robb, of course. Ever since, not so long ago, the _true_ essence of the knowledge that Robb was the heir and Jon was _not_ the spare, but the bastard without any claim whatsoever, had fully set in, Robb had – or so it seemed to Jon – kept more of a distance. Jon knew it for a fact. It had started about half a year ago, when Robb had returned from a tour of the North with his father. That tour had changed Robb; had made more of a man of him. He'd left a boy who sometimes liked to abuse his line of descent to get what he wanted (most often used in the kitchens when a fresh batch of lemon cakes came in), yet he'd returned almost an adult, who had suddenly come to understand the true weight of his position. And it felt as if it had caused a rift between him and his half-brother. Robb could be cool towards him now, sometimes outright cold. He literally kept his distance, and when he spoke to him using the name _Snow_ it sometimes sounded patronising and aloof.

But amidst all that, Jon also knew Robb would sometimes watch him, steal glances at him, almost as if he was trying to apologise, make excuses for a conduct both knew Jon did not really deserve. Like today's sword practice. It was possibly the only activity these days they could engage in without Robb sending him mixed signals, without the sense that something had changed – was wrong, even. He was _convinced_ he'd seen Robb standing in the window of one of the upstairs rooms, watching the banter and fighting, watching _him_. The longer he thought about it, the more incomprehensible it became to Jon, because why in the name of the Gods would Robb want to watch him like that? He could simply come down and join in. It just didn't make any sense. And the thing that made even less sense was the _way_ in which Robb had been staring at him. Or, when he had finally joined them, the way Robb had allowed himself to be decimated off the courtyard, before the place became too crowded. Jon always had a hard time defeating his half-brother, and this afternoon it had been just about the easiest thing in the world.

Jon knew one thing for certain: there was something wrong with Robb for he was clearly not himself.

Grey Wind was sprawled across the furs on the bed when he entered his bedroom. He kicked the door shut and also kicked his heavy boot against the nearest chair for good measure. On his return to the great hall earlier he had managed to eat, what was it – five bites? He'd been dazed and worried and annoyed by Jon's absence, why couldn't he just take his seat even if it meant sitting a few rows back? Ignoring the total injustice in his thoughts, he yanked open the top drawer and pulled out something to wear for the night. Grey Wind had jumped off the bed and pushed his muzzle against Robb's flank, sensing the tension that was thrumming through his body. He acknowledged the wolf by scratching the fur in the back of his neck – patting him softly, calming down just a little bit himself. "I'm a complete idiot," he muttered at the wolf. He started taking off his boots and breeches, throwing them haphazardly around the bed. "I think I want something I can never have, and now I've gone and botched the whole thing up by showing myself to him. He must surely take me for the complete idiot that I obviously am." He clawed angrily at the laces of his jerkin – mimicking Jon that sunny afternoon in the castle's courtyard, when their swordplay had distracted Robb just enough to not grab Jon then and there. He had been able to restrain himself – but barely – to not ram Jon up against him and run his hands over Jon's naked upper body, dragging his nails up Jon's back just to end up with a fistful of soft black curls that he only wanted to bury his face into.

The realisation had come to him during those aggravating minutes on the dais when he realised Jon wasn't there, this time most likely not because his mother had seated him too far to the back, but because Jon must have picked up on every single thought Robb had tried so hard to hide, and now wanted to have nothing more to do with him. He was certain Jon knew how Robb felt about him, how he could no longer keep the fire from his eyes whenever he looked at him, how those same eyes had watched Jon, and how his eyes had almost taken off every last stitch left on Jon's body. He wanted Jon so badly and today he had run out of ways to hide that very fact.

He had effectively chased Jon off, and it made him feel sick to his stomach.

_ tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, as Robb woke up to the noises of people and horses out in the courtyard, he grumbled as the events of the previous day came barrelling back to him. He closed his eyes, dropped an arm across his face and wondered if he was ever going to get this right. Jon knew now, he realised. He had let his guard drop just a little too much yesterday: he'd make an awful strategist.

Grey Wind came up to lick his hand and in return he reached out to scratch the fur. At least the wolf always made him feel like he belonged, no matter how awful he felt. There was a knock. "What," he grumbled, sitting up. It was a servant, bringing in hot water and fresh clothes. "Yeah, yeah," he said absent-mindedly, waving a hand at the door, as the woman started to fuss with the shutters to his windows and the few drapes around his bed. "I'll do it myself." Even this made him think of Jon, who had decided not to be waited upon any longer. Jon, who made sure that his clothes were being taken care of himself, who cleaned up the mess he made himself, who even build the fires in his room himself. The woman retreated quickly, used by now to his grumpy attitude in the morning. He hoped that maybe that would get better as soon as he'd find a way to deal with Jon. He grabbed his clothes.

Breakfast.

Robb looked at the things that someone had thought fit to pile onto his plate and then serve it to him, and his stomach churned. There were people milling in the back of the hall, near the large tables especially set up for their guests, and Robb tried to block out their loud shouts and banter. Theon sat across from him at the large oak table on the dais and was studying him closely. "You look like shit," was his first observation. Robb didn't even look up, just tried to fight the turmoil inside. "A night's sleep didn't help then?" he asked, and Robb grunted, still looking at his hands, trying to shut Theon out. "You puked your guts up in the Godswood, didn't you?" Theon continued, and Robb _had_ to look at him now, because how in the seven hells did he know that?

"Spying on me?" he asked, and he knew he had to stay with this attitude now; had to scare Theon out of following him again if that is what he had done the night before. He couldn't risk anyone finding out why he had even fled into the Godswood to begin with; what if he ever said something out loud? What if someone ever pieced it together? Jon knew already, he was sure of that, and Theon certainly was clever enough to do so with even less information than that.

Theon only smiled, that ugly, crooked smile of his, and tapped the side of his nose. Then he picked up his blood pie and took such an obscenely large bite, that Robb had to look away, feeling sicker than ever. His head spun violently, and he grabbed the armrests of his chair in both hands, knuckles white and stretched taut.

"I'll break your legs before you follow me again," Robb said threateningly, surprising even himself; but he meant it – _nobody can know anything._ "I'll break them tonight; maybe tomorrow night; or maybe next month when you've just started to believe I was making empty threats…" Theon stopped chewing and they stared at each other, Theon squinting as he gauged Robb. "So take something seriously for a change," Robb added. "Nobody spies on me."

He breathed in deeply, and exhaled, feeling a little better. All this misery and confusion with Jon had almost made him forget there was one thing he had plenty of. Power. He had power as the strongest on the practise yard (as long as he kept Theon away from his longbow – his _traitor's weapon_), and he had power as being the heir to Winterfell – the only one of the children in the Stark household that was eventually set to come into a vast inheritance. Most of the time he resented this inheritance, but in cases like this, when Theon Greyjoy was threatening to edge in too close, Robb knew when to use it to his advantage.

_Maybe not such a bad strategist after all._

Theon was still looking at him, slowly starting to chew again, and Robb even picked up a chunk of bread himself, not taking his eyes of his father's ward. "You would too," Theon concluded, lopsided grin on his face. He chewed some more, then dropped his food on his plate and pushed his chair backwards, standing up. "I'll keep it in mind." He walked out of the hall, shaking his head, leaving Robb.

Next to come barging in on him and his breakfast was Arya. She always made way too much noise in the morning, and today – when his head was beginning to hurt like the deepest of the seven hells – this was even less bearable.

"Robb!" she said, eyes wide with surprise to find him at table already. "Thought you'd still be sleeping." She danced around the table towards him and rose on tiptoes to kiss her brother on his cheek. "Eww," she muttered, turning away to grab fruit and bread from bowls on a side table, brushing furiously at her lips. "Can't you just shave that off?" Robb smiled silently, watching his younger sister take a seat, biting firmly into a large green apple.

"I could," he teased and flicked a piece of bread at her face. "But if keeping my beard means you being all prissy and unable to take it like a man, I won't." Of course _that_ had her on her feet. "I'm just as good as any of you!" she called out, and rounded the table once more, bread and fruit quite forgotten. "You know I can shoot, and you know I would make a really good swordsm-" she faltered. "Woman. Swordswoman; if only father would allow me to practise with you and Bran and Jon." He leant out of his chair and wrapped her up in his arms, hugging her close. "I know," he said softly into her ragged hair. "I'm just teasing you." They hung on to each other for a few seconds before Robb set her down again. She kissed his cheek – no fuss this time – and then she reached for her apple, said goodbye, and left the hall.

Robb bit into a piece of ham to test the waters, but his stomach was still churning so he decided against breakfast altogether. Slowly, it dawned on him that even though he may have been in a peculiar state of mind these last few hours, it could also be there was something wrong with him that had nothing to do with these stupid thoughts and feelings at all. He thought about it: he hadn't been able to keep his dinner down, and now he had to forego on his breakfast as well. Maybe he should pay Maester Luwin a visit. He tried a careful sip of water, not trusting any ale or wine at this stage, but even that made his mind whirl and his stomach clench. _The Maester it is_.

When he stood up to leave the hall and find the Maester, he realised Jon had entered and was walking towards him briskly. "Good morning," Jon said, voice crisp and cheerful. "Better?" Robb sank back into his chair, shaking his head. _Had they all watched him crumble last night?_

"Been out spying on me in the Godswood with Theon, have you?" he asked sharply, completely out of character, and suddenly his head began to spin and he was feeling worse by the second. He saw a very confused look on Jon's face, but he had other matters to attend to. Finding a pail, for example, or an exit door, or any place away from Jon, so Jon wouldn't witness him falling apart at the seams again. He made it to neither, though, and the last thing he felt were Jon's hands grasping to hold him and his knees buckling out from under him, before everything went black.

When he woke up again, he felt Grey Wind's warm fur under his palm. There were people in the room, but he didn't yet want to open his eyes, so instead he just listened, trying to ignore his churning stomach.

"Something he ate," came the first voice, clearly Maester Luwin. "Or a fever. Sometimes these are the preliminary symptoms." Someone hummed, and he thought it was his father. "When will he wake up?" That was his mother. "He's asleep," said the Maester. "He'll wake soon enough if he's caught the disease I think he's caught. Just let the Gods decide on the moment."

Robb decided to keep his eyes closed for a little longer, wanting all these people to leave first, but after about a minute he realised why he had woken up to begin with; he needed to throw up. In fact, the urge caused him to sit up almost instantly, causing his mother to call out his name in surprise and Grey Wind to jump off the bed.

"I'm going to…." was all he could say, and somehow his mother came up with something to hold – he didn't even register what it was – and made a mess in it.

"The Gods could have found you a more decent way to wake up," his father deadpanned, after Maester Luwin had taken the pail from him and his mother was fussing in an attempt to clean him up. "You'd better get some sleep, son," Ned muttered and squeezed Robb's shoulder on his way out. Robb fell back against the cushions and watched Maester Luwin take his leave together with Lord Stark, muttering something about him getting better soon, now that he had woken up. _One to go. _He really wanted to be alone.

Grey Wind hopped onto his bed again and settled near his feet. Then there was a knock and the door opened and it was Jon. Robb flicked his eyes toward his mother and saw her face go from worried to stone cold in less than a second. "No," she said, and stood up. "He's ill, no one's allowed in."

Jon just stood there, hands clutched around the doorframe, clearly debating with himself if he would argue with her or not. Robb decided to make the decision for them and coughed a little. "It's all right, mother," he said, and his voice sounded weaker than he was willing to admit. "I want to talk to Jon anyway."

Barely able to hide the contempt in her eyes, Catelyn Stark left the room, but made quite a performance first of straightening his sheets and furs, filling a cup of whatever-it-was he wouldn't drink, and shutting out the sunlight by adjusting the shutters. "Mother," he muttered, hardly able to hide his irritation. "Stop it." She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes full of hurt. Then, without another word, she left the room. Grey Wind returned to Robb's bed and jumped on it in one graceful movement.

Jon walked in, stood against the bedpost, hands on his back.

"Feeling better?" he tried, voice quiet. Robb could feel the burn of Jon's eyes on his face, those dark, smoky eyes that he shouldn't be fantasising about like he did. He shook his head. "Threw up again," he said, but his voice came out scratchy and fragile.

"What happened?" Jon asked, and stepped closer to where Robb was lying. "Something you ate?" Robb smirked, couldn't help it, then felt his head throb. It hurt more when he laughed. "Have you been listening at the door?" he then asked, because those were Maester Luwin's exact words.

Jon just smiled but said nothing.

"I don't know," Robb continued then, and his voice was almost gone, so the words came out more like a whisper. "I just need to rest and I'll get better, I suppose. Or so Maester Luwin thinks." Jon nodded slowly, biting his lip, clearly thinking about something.

"Can I ask you something?" He moved so close to Robb now that they could actually touch each other. Robb nodded, but he really hoped the question didn't require an elaborate answer; he really felt bad enough as it was and he found that talking exhausted him.

Robb nodded.

"Was that you, yesterday, in the window above the courtyard?"

_Leave it to Snow to be this direct_. Robb had to swallow hard, realising he could only tell the truth as he simply didn't have the strength to lie about it. He nodded.

Jon bit his lip again, contemplating Robb's answer, looking down at his boots. Then, suddenly, he sat down on the edge of the large bed. Grey Wind looked at him curiously, then licked his lips and rested his head on his legs again. "You looked at me," Jon began, trailing off, and Robb wondered where he was going to take this conversation – if that was what it was. "But not… not like you'd normally do," Jon finished and Robb could see a slight blush starting in Jon's neck, slowly creeping up. They both looked away, and Grey Wind made a helpless little sound, standing up, padding across the bed, lying down right next to Robb. Under any other circumstances, questions like these would make him blush too, he thought, fiercer and faster than Jon did, probably – but he was just too sick; it felt like all his blood was pooling around his stomach.

He nodded again, because with Jon being this bold, he wanted to respond in kind. Jon lifted his head just in time to actually see him nod, and then they just looked at each other, and Robb's heart was pounding in his ribcage, and if it wasn't for the fact he felt so incredibly sick, he would probably do something really stupid now.

"Are... are you angry?" Robb asked then, his voice barely there. Jon rubbed his hands across his face, then their eyes locked again and after a few heartbeats he shook his head. He stood up then, quite abruptly, and turned to the hearth. Jon put some more wood on the big, crackling fire inside of it and stared at the flames for a while. Grey Wind had fallen asleep under Robb's hand, and he closed his own eyes for a few seconds as well, enjoying the soft sound and feel of his wolf's sleepy snores. Then he heard rustling, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Jon walk across his room, back to the bed, standing at the end.

"Robb…" he began, and the blush had disappeared, Robb noticed. Now he was going to scold him, tell him he was a stupid fool, that he didn't appreciate being stared at like that, that he'd rather be with girls, and that he really wanted Robb to stay the hell away from him. He had obviously made up his mind, judging from the firm look on his face. Robb braced himself, couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"I could…" Jon hesitated, but only for a second, then offered a half-smile. "I could take it off again."

_He could take it off again_.

Robb hadn't thought it possible, but a red, hot fire started to rage on his cheeks, just like that – no warning. To make it even worse, a sharp spike of need travelled straight down to his dick, which should feel amazing if it weren't for the fact he felt so horrible all the time.

He thought he should really start shaking his head, but to his own surprise found himself nodding – slowly. "You could," he whispered.

"Do you want me to?" Jon went on, seemingly unperturbed, and they _really_ had to talk about that.

Robb nodded. Again, slowly – as if he was still contemplating the idea; and still very red in the face. Jon smiled, moving his hands to the laces on his jerkin. Robb twisted his head to the door, indicating someone – Jon – should bolt it, but Jon made no move. Instead, he pulled out the laces one loop after the other, treacherously slowly, and Robb knew he was staring. Blatantly.

Then the leather fell away and Jon started to undo the buttons at the top of his tunic, slowly pulling it up and over his head when he was done. "So this was what you were waiting for?" he asked, and casually dropped the white tunic to the floor, not quite looking at Robb. "Yesterday, I mean."

Robb nodded. He couldn't speak even if he _wanted_ to.

"Yes," Jon said quietly, gazing at the look in Robb's eyes. "That is exactly the look you had on your face yesterday."

Robb could only stare. The door was not bolted and Jon Snow had taken off his clothes in his room. What if Arya ran in, or Bran? What if Old Nan decided he needed clean sheets? What if Theon felt this was a right proper time to come over and do a bit more nosing about? He would get a bloody eyeful, by the Gods…

Worst of all was the ultimate thing he couldn't control, of course – and that was the way his cock was growing hard underneath the layers of furs, straining up against his breeches – hurting in a good way, as it always did when it got like this. Sweat had started to break out in tiny pearls on his brow, and slowly but steadily the world started to spin.

"Enough," he croaked, finding a remnant of his voice. Then he closed his eyes, shutting everything out – including Jon's naked chest. He could hear Jon picking up his things, could hear him move around near the bed – putting the garments back on, no doubt – then stepping closer. Still, Robb refused to open his eyes. He was either going to say something hysterically stupid, or throw up again, and he wasn't prepared for either. Then he felt Jon's hand on his head, threading fingers through his curls, and when he was trying to decide if this should make him open his eyes, the hand was gone again and seconds later he heard the door open and close and Jon had left without a word.

_So I was right_, Jon thought as he made his way out of Robb's room and his tower. Of course it had been a matter of timing, but it had gotten him the answers he wanted. He did feel bad, though, as Robb had looked downright awful when he stepped into his room and laid eyes on him. Robb was pale of skin on the sunniest of days, but all the blood had drained from his handsome face now, and whatever was ailing him, had ravaged him almost overnight. But Jon just had to know, and when he saw him lying there, barely able to speak, he knew it was his best, and possibly _only_ chance of Robb _ever_ owning up to what was going on. The whole thing sent another shiver down Jon's spine, like it had when he was still in Robb's bedchamber where a big fire should rule that out. Robb's confused signals of the last few weeks had suddenly started to make all the sense in the world to him, and instead of finding it frightening or revolting, it actually felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Robb had always been his best friend, had always – as maybe the only one in Winterfell – truly looked out for him. He loved Robb; like a brother, yes. But the signs were there, and deep down Jon knew that it took someone like Robb, certainly not him, to eventually own up to those signs and show them – whether he had really intended to or not. And now he had confronted Robb, at the best and worst of times possible, and he had something to think about tonight. Because Robb had not been able to hide his excitement when Jon removed his clothes.

Still, he was secretly glad Robb had closed his eyes. It had prevented him from seeing the blush on Jon's face that had returned quickly and ruthlessly, giving everything away.

But, more importantly, it had most likely also prevented Robb from noticing the rapidly growing swell in his breeches. So now Jon hurried along dark corridors to his own room as he had rather pressing matters to attend to.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon sat picking at his food on the morning of the sixth day of Robb's absence, Ghost silently at his feet. Theon had come, had eaten, had made a few stabs at irritating him without any success and had left him to himself again.

Arya had practically begged him for a round of swords later that day, but he had declined, barely managing a smile to soothe her disappointment. Every day without Robb walking around, practising with him, riding out with him, simply _looking_ at him, had thrown him more and more off kilter.

Now that he had practically forced Robb to allow him an insight into how he really felt about Jon, he had not quite been the same. It was something they needed to talk about, even though they were both not exactly the talking kind. Lady Stark, however, was effectively keeping him out of Robb's tower; somehow always coming down when he was trying to go up, telling him Robb was sleeping, or otherwise not to be disturbed. After three days of these_ coincidences_ he had given up, deciding to wait it out. Robb couldn't stay holed up there forever, could he?

Yet, the number of times he caught sight of Maester Luwin climbing the tower worried him a little, and no one was telling him anything. He could, of course, ask the Maester himself, or Arya, or even his father – but there was something odd going on between Robb and himself now, something that really _no one_ could ever know about. Yet somehow it felt as if their secret – whatever it entailed – was written on his forehead for all the world to see. As if people would notice something amiss as soon as he even mentioned Robb's name. For one thing, he certainly didn't trust his own body anymore; not after the fierce blush that had overtaken him in Robb's room as soon as he realised what taking off his shirt was doing to his half-brother. So, he kept quiet, kept his eye out for signs, tried to overhear conversations that might be about Robb, but on the whole he felt left in the dark, and his mood was deteriorating by the hour.

"You have always been a terrible patient," Lady stark complained, opening the shutters to let in the cool summer wind, airing the stuffy room. "When you were a little child it was virtually impossible to keep you abed, and now when you should know better, you're sitting up in that chair every time I enter this room instead of lying down in bed." She walked towards him and gave him a pointed look. Robb looked away.

His mother had found him in said chair in for the simple fact it was close to the window. He had been looking out of that window, waiting and watching, hoping to glimpse a sign of Jon who had never returned to his room after their last confrontation. He had made certain he would not be seen from the window, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, and whenever he heard anyone enter his room, he would drop down in the chair, pretending to read or sleep. He had seen Jon a few times, but Jon had never once looked up, hadn't nearly practised in the yard as much as he would normally do, and even if he _did _come out to play, the past few days of unexpected summer snows had definitely kept him from taking off his tunic.

Robb hated to admit it but that was all that occupied his mind these days. Forced to stay in his room (and in bed constantly the first few days), he had been given plenty of time to think about what had happened between them on the day he fell ill. The first few days he had just tried to conjure up the image of a shirtless Jon Snow in his mind, and he had lain in his bed with closed eyes, a thudding heart and a throbbing erection. Despite feeling terrible, _that_ particular physical feature seemed to live a life of its own. Fortunately, when he started feeling better, he had enough energy to deal with his bittersweet problem, but always in the knowledge that his mother could enter his room at any time. In the time left, he stood staring out of the window, hands against the rough wooden frame, cheek resting on his hands, for as long as he could manage, and then he would return to his bed and sleep a little more. Every day was essentially spent waiting for Jon, but Jon had never returned. After five days he could no longer suppress the thought that his half-brother must have changed his mind; that he had been shocked and repulsed by what they had done after all, and that he simply wouldn't visit Robb anymore.

That was when the doubting had started; the frustration at being stuck in his room. He needed to see Jon, needed to talk to him, even though he knew they were both not exactly the talking kind. He tried to hang on to the feeling of Jon's hand running through his hair before he left, a certain sign of affection in Robb's world; but with every passing hour he missed Jon more and his mood deteriorated at an equal pace. Even his wolf had left him alone, not used either to being cooped up indoors all the time. Arya had taken Nymeria and Grey Wind into the woods that morning, right after breakfast, leaving him behind to feel truly alone.

He walked over to the bed, threw himself down, and gave his mother such an exasperated look that she said nothing, made no fuss over his furs, but simply headed for the door. "Mother?" he said, feeling sorry already. She stilled, looking back at him over her shoulder. "It's just that I hate being up here all the time. I am really no good at this. I feel like a prisoner."

"I know." She smiled softly. "When the fever is gone, you're free to go," she added, and opened the door. "Maester Luwin's orders." Robb sighed and shut his eyes, hearing the click of the door as it closed, wanting to scream at the silence.

"Nymeria!" Arya called and the wolf came running up to her, Ghost and Grey Wind in her wake. Now that all of Lord Stark's guests had left again, playing with the wolves inside castle walls was no longer a problem. Jon watched as Arya ran around the courtyard with the pups – the rapidly growing pups – and he had to smile despite his foul mood. Arya was by far his favourite sister, much more so than distant Sansa, who considered herself the queen of the realm already, practically betrothed as she was to Joffrey Baratheon.

Before he could let thoughts of how Sansa sometimes treated him ruin his mood even further, he saw Lady Stark exit Robb's tower and he wondered if this was his chance. He looked around, watched his stepmother disappear into the Lord's quarters and stood up; he left Arya and the wolves alone and walked briskly toward the door that Catelyn had just closed and quickly disappeared behind it.

He took the stairs two at the time, ending up on the landing of Robb's room breathless and excited. He wondered if he was supposed to knock, looked at the door for a while as he was trying to catch his breath. Inwardly, he counted to ten – then opened the door as quietly as he could and stepped inside the room.

Robb was standing with his back against the wooden frame of his window, face unreadable. His curls were a mess, and he wore nothing but a white tunic that was hanging dangerously askew, revealing skin stretched taut over a pale, sharp collarbone.

"Robb," Jon breathed, slowly pushing the door closed behind him. Robb wasn't moving but he was pinning him with a stare more intense than Jon had ever been on the receiving end of. He stepped into the room, bringing up his hand to slide the bolt in place but deciding against it after all. He closed in on Robb, who still didn't move.

"We need to talk," Jon said softly, beginning to feel slightly unnerved by the silence and Robb's eyes that were burning holes into Jon's skull.

"Where have you been all these days?"

Jon swallowed hard; of course they had to get _that_ out of the way first.

"Your mother…" he started, inching ever closer to Robb, picking up on the tension, his pent up anger and frustration from being shut into his room longer than any man in Winterfell could possibly endure. "Every time I wanted to come up, she came down, and she always had some excuse to keep me out. I've tried, by the Gods, I have."

"Really," Robb said flatly. "And now you want to talk?" His voice was laced with something Jon couldn't quite place; something angry, something… desperate? Jon nodded slowly, feeling like he was coaxing a scared animal out of its hiding place.

"I guess you made a mistake, right?" Robb continued, and he pushed away from the window, circling to avoid Jon, going over to stand by the hearth. He placed one hand against the beam overhead, rested his forehead against it and stared into the flames.

"Robb," Jon started again, heading for the fire as well, resting a hand on Robb's shoulder. "I made no mistake." He curled his fingers into the neck of Robb's tunic and pulled gently, forcing Robb to turn around. "I'm here now, aren't I?" He slid his hand further up Robb's neck, pulling him down. "I've wanted to come up here so bad, and your mother kept getting in my way, and I don't want to fight with you about this…"

Robb allowed himself to be pulled in by Jon and the fire in his eyes changed into something less hostile, and he parted his lips to bite the bottom one and that was the moment Jon leaned even closer and kissed him.

Robb felt lightheaded, his weakened body going instantly boneless against Jon's as they kissed harder, his hands clawing for purchase in Jon's black leather tunic. He shivered as he felt Jon's hands run up his back, circling him in his arms, keeping him on his feet as they stumbled away from the fire together.

"Jon," he moaned into Jon's mouth, arching his back to push himself against Jon's body, shuddering at the feel of Jon's hand in the small of his back pressing them closer together. His head was spinning by now, blood pooling rapidly in his dick, which he could feel swelling and stiffening against his tunic. Jon's hand slid even lower, palming Robb's buttocks through the linen fabric, extracting another loud moan from Robb's mouth.

"Turn around," Jon mouthed against Robb's lips, pulling back.

"Jon," Robb knew he was begging, but he couldn't find it in himself _not_ to ask for more; to stop Jon from unravelling him.

"Trust me," Jon whispered, stroking the stubble on Robb's cheek, easing him. "I want this as much as you do." Robb stared at him, breath coming in soft bursts against Jon's mouth, his heart beating in his throat. He lowered his lashes and nodded. Somewhere in his fevered mind he wondered if he should try to find objections, to stop Jon and him from doing this, to ask himself if he could _really_ trust Jon with this secret, but it was already too late for that. When he felt Jon nudge him around he shut himself out of his thoughts, and decided that if there was one person in Winterfell who could be trusted with his bittersweet, forbidden desires it was Jon, and he allowed him to steer them even closer to the window.

"Grab the sill," Jon muttered, teeth scraping the skin in Robb's neck, and Robb steadied himself against the window frame. He felt goose prickles all over his body the moment Jon slid a hand underneath his tunic for the first time, resting it on the naked softness around his belly button. "Watch," Jon ordered roughly, keeping Robb in place against his hips with the other. "Tell me what you see."

"Wha-?" Robb had to struggle to catch on, trying desperately to remain upright – tiny stars flashing in and out of his sight. "Outside," Jon growled, lowering his hand until Robb felt Jon's fingertips brushing his length, painfully hot and hard by now, aching for a firm touch. "Tell me what you see."

"I – I'm…" Robb stuttered, trying to focus on what went on downstairs. "It's… ehm… Theon," he began, shuddering when Jon teased the tip of his cock, groaning angrily as Jon removed his hand.

"Patience," Jon shushed and from the corner of his eyes Robb watched how Jon swiped a wet, pink tongue along his palm, then wrapping it around Robb's length again. "What's he doing, Robb?" Jon's mouth was so close when he whispered the question that Robb could feel the moisture of Jon's breath against the shell of his ear. "What's Theon doing?"

Robb tried to form an answer as he felt Jon tug up and everything whited out for a few seconds. No one had ever touched him like this but himself, and he groaned against his fist. He watched Theon loose an arrow in the courtyard, hitting the middle of the target with practised ease, and then Jon slid his hand down forcefully and Robb had to shut out the world.

"Watch," Jon ordered again, and Robb opened his eyes on a pleading sob.

"What if they look up?" he asked, his breath hitching in his throat, biting his fist when Jon's hand pulled up again. "Gods, what are you doing to me?"

"Do you do this to yourself?" Jon answered with a question, sliding his thumb through the stickiness at the tip, Robb's knees almost buckling. "Do you touch yourself this way?" Jon twisted his wrist, pressing his thumb in deep underneath the crown of Robb's cock and Robb bit his fist again before he stammered a shaky _yes_ in fits and starts. Of course he did; lately more than he cared to admit, but it had never, _ever_ felt this good. As Jon started a rhythm, his strokes steady and demanding, he curled his other hand around the hem of Robb's tunic, pulling the fabric up slowly. He bunched it in his hand, then under Robb's arms, exposing Robb's skin to the prickly cold air that came in from the open window. They were not visible from anywhere in the castle, Robb expected, but the idea of _what _they were doing and exactly _how_ Jon made them do it sent such excruciating spikes of want through his body that he shuddered with every pull of Jon's hand.

"What else?" Jon asked after a brief silence in which nothing but the slick sound of his hand around Robb's dick and Robb's erratic breathing were audible. "Tell me what else you see." Robb forced himself to look out of the window once more while all he really wanted was to drop his head in his neck and lean heavy against Jon's shoulder and just _feel_ his way through.

As he looked out he saw Theon do a quick little bow to someone still out of sight and then his mother walked into his line of sight. He didn't even think; just spoke as Jon had ordered him to.

It's my…" he started, then somehow corrected himself. "Lady Stark just walked out."

"Did she now?" Jon asked rhetorically and squeezed him only a little harder, rubbing his other hand over the flat of Robb's chest, thumbing a nipple into hardness and Robb twisted his head around because he needed to _see_ Jon, if only for a few seconds; needed to look into his eyes and see what he felt himself. "A-and?" Jon stuttered, upping his tempo, gripping Robb's chest harder, owning him. He pressed his nose against the skin of Robb's neck and kissed him, all lips and tongue and hot wet slide, and Robb felt like he was going to fall apart.

"She-," he arched up in Jon's grip, pushing away from the window, and started to fuck himself within the confines of Jon's fist. "She… is coming… towards this tower," he managed to say, a distant sense of panic entering his mind, all the rest of him pushing up into Jon's amazing hand, feverishly searching for his release.

"Is she now?" Jon parroted his earlier question before latching his mouth over Robb's skin just below the neckline of his tunic, sucking and marking him. "Imagine that…" he muttered as he broke away and brought his free hand down to brush his fingers against Robb's balls – eliciting a downright cry from him.

"Hurry," Robb urged hoarsely and he wondered how much of his sudden haste was caused by his mother coming up the steps or by his growing need for release, overwhelmed by all the dirty things Jon was doing to him. "Gods, Jon…" Heat was building in his lower back, slowly but steadily forcing its release as Robb fucked up into Jon's spit-slick hand.

"If only she knew, huh?" Jon smirked against Robb's skin, moving smoothly with the cadence of Robb's body against his, and then – not _just like that_ but still catching Robb off guard – there it was, a big burst behind his eyes and an explosion of searing heat throughout his body. Robb muffled his cries by pushing his fist against his teeth, biting down, and he came harder than ever before. Jon pushed Robb's tunic down but held their hips close between his elbows, both hands cupping and squeezing Robb's balls as hot, thick spurts of come soiled both. Robb felt his body shudder violently with each and every burst of release, coming down in complete surrender under Jon's hands.

When the world spiralled back into place, Robb could hear footsteps reaching the top of the stairs and before he could say anything Jon whirled them both around, planting a breathless Robb in the chair near the window and dropped himself against the windowsill – hands behind his back – moments before the door opened and Lady Stark walked in.

Her bright blue eyes went wide when she saw that Jon was there, and she flashed them from Jon to Robb several times before Robb spoke.

"Mother," he breathed and Jon was amazed by the level of composure that Robb had achieved within the five seconds that had passed. "What brings you here so soon again?"

She squinted at him, clearly gauging him, but made no reply.

Then she dragged her eyes to Jon and took him in from his feet to his face. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Visiting the patient?" Jon offered, feeling the flush that had graced his cheeks dissipating under her hostile look. He shifted his weight, ignoring the stickiness inside his breeches, looking forward to the moment he could confess to Robb their little encounter had made him come without being touched.

"But I'll be going now," he muttered and made for the door.

"Jon," Robb said, his voice steady and clear, making him turn around instantly.

"Robb?" he asked, barely able to hide his amusement as he saw the look in Robb's eyes.

"We'll _talk_ again later?"

"Talk?"

"Talk," Robb assured him.

"Y-yes," he almost stuttered. "We'll talk. More." He swallowed. "Later."

And with that he left the room as quickly as good manners allowed him.

**_Fin_**


	4. Chapter 4

First - I apologise; you were thinking a whole new shiny chapter was ready for you to read, but no. I do have a message for you though:

In reply to SO MANY people who have been asking me to write more for these two: This story is going to be taken out of hibernation in September. So more soon!


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